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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170838">even a slow fire can't burn forever</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhamilton/pseuds/annhamilton'>annhamilton</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>City of Knives, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Siavahda's Runed! verse, non-linear story telling, world building</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:02:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170838</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhamilton/pseuds/annhamilton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'You needed passion to survive immortality; passion for other people, or for learning, or travel, or art—anything, something. One of their sisters had been collecting spoons since ancient Egypt, for Sekhmet’s sake'</p><p>*</p><p>Looking back in time doesn’t need psychic precognition. It doesn’t need tarot cards nor scrying. It might need a book, or words or pictures. It might need some spoons. If your age is high enough it might need a strong drink. </p><p>*</p><p>Immortality is a daunting life and sometimes you just have to collect spoons and let the waves take you. </p><p>(In which thousands of words were written about a one-off world-building line)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>even a slow fire can't burn forever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siavahda/gifts">Siavahda</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735940">City of Knives</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siavahda/pseuds/Siavahda">Siavahda</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>full quote:<br/>Unless you were lucky enough to fall in love with another warlock, or with a vampire or one of the fae, you were doomed to lose your beloveds over and over again. It was one of the many prices of immortality, one they all had to live with, because the alternative—closing off one’s heart entirely—was one no ashipu could survive for very long. You needed passion to survive immortality; passion for other people, or for learning, or travel, or art—anything, something. One of their sisters had been collecting spoons since ancient Egypt, for Sekhmet’s sake. It didn’t matter what form your passion took. But cut yourself off from it—or lose it, as plenty did—and sooner rather than later there would be the kind of accident that wasn’t quite suicide…but that didn’t happen to people who still cared about living. --City of Knives, Chapter 15: The Spiral Court, Siavahda.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bonnie Knox had known many names. She had been called both long and short names. Ella, Meg, Kilsesider,  Killahkadaz, Kad, she liked k’s, sue her. She dressed in her Sunday best to go to the auction, her medium-sized name printed on her ID. Mafias do the best jobs, she never cared to learn what to look for authenticity, but they always pass through security. </p><p>It didn’t take long for the object of her desire to show up. The auctioneer, a tall skinny man with knobbly knuckles and worn skin introduced it. </p><p>“And here we have a Shang dynasty era bone spoon, it was found in a dig in the basins of Bulgan and Eg rivers. It is around 3,900 years old and was found and dated by the  Archaeology Department of Ulaanbaatar State University. It was stored at the college through the 21st century. The bidding will start at 2,000 euros. 2,000 from the back. Do I have 2,100?”</p><p>*</p><p>Time is like cloth spread over a table. Each soul is intertwined in the threading. </p><p>A soul can only have much thread before it suffocates. </p><p>*</p><p>France is in a reign of terror. History is being made with each drop of the guillotine and cheer of the crowd. Ella Sallow—who will ‘soon’ be Bonnie Knox—managed to get into the cell, all it took was some sob story and some money. </p><p>Ella had seen and heard such cruel things about the Queen. She’s seen the paintings of her as the devil, of her cheating on her husband when he walks in, of her with a woman! Such a scandal contained in the drawings. Probably all lies. </p><p>The doomed Queen sat in her cell, her dress simple and plain, her hair in a single plait down her back. </p><p>They had never met before but their circles contacted, not their tea and dance circles of decadence but the backwaters of society for communication and news. </p><p>“Marie Antoinette,” Ella gave a mocking bow, arms swept out the side. “A pleasure.” </p><p>Marie Antoinette had her tray of food, well food is generous, it’s stale bread and mush that may have once been potatoes with a slab of tough meat, balanced on her knees. </p><p>She had a wooden spoon, it was small and  full of splinters but she held it like it was porcelain. “I suppose I’m to know your name but I’m afraid I do not know all whom I’ve slighted.”</p><p>She had many names but for the sake of keeping everything straight she merely introduced herself, “I am Ella Sallow.” </p><p>“Are you a slave? Is that why you want my head.” </p><p>Marie was to be sent to her death the next day. </p><p>“I am merely here to talk with you,” Ella leaned against the wall, hands braced on the brick. “I’ve seen how these things go. How history will remember you.” </p><p>“I’m sure I will go down as the wicked Queen.”</p><p>“I know you are a smart woman, a decadent one but smarter than your husband. More ruthless. I respect that in anyone, even a Queen.”</p><p> “Are you here to break me out?” </p><p>“I don’t think there should ever be a monarchy but I don’t believe you did all the things accused of you.”</p><p>“Are you here to break me out?”</p><p>“No, these people will never stop looking for you and will hunt you till you are dead and they might go after your children. You are a symbol. It is a mercy to be killed so quickly”</p><p>Marie Antionette’s disdain was thick as black smoke. “You will not think the same when you die.” </p><p>“Maybe not,” Ella smoothed her hands down her skirts. “You will be remembered. True death comes from forgetting.” </p><p>“A small comfort.” </p><p>Marie Antionette threw her tray of food at the wall, such a violent and sudden gesture that Ella flinched. The scraps left littered the floor. </p><p>“Leave me alone,” Marie Antionette turned, her back a defiant line. “I wish to pray.”</p><p>Ella picked up the spoon that touched history’s lips. She doesn’t care that its authenticity can never be proven. Ella knows pity well, pity for Queens is somewhat new. A symbol of everything wrong with monarchy shouldn’t be placed on one person’s shoulders. Pity. Pity. Pity. </p><p>She will not miss the Queen, won’t mourn her but she pressed her hand to her heart in remembrance. </p><p>Robespierre will not dine with her but he swipes one of his spoons from a dirty plate in the back of a dining room. She placed both spoons in the same case, separated by a glass wall.</p><p>*</p><p>It’s just stuff. Objects. Material possessions. What’s a spoon in the grand scheme of all things?</p><p>(Nothing?) </p><p>What indeed?</p><p>*</p><p>Nero isn’t mad. He has his flaws but his head is fine for an Emperor. Surrounded by marble pillars and gold he is home. His appeal is clear, you look at him and think, leader, Gods-chosen. Killiahkadaz—who will also be called Ella and Bonnie—can get used to decadence.  She doesn’t care much for games. She asks the young Emperor for his spoon over a meal. </p><p>With her magicks, she could create a fake from studying the one in his hand, she could also summon it from his hand but the latter required much precision. </p><p>“Why,” Nero asked, his mother quite possibly killed his half-brother so her son could rule Rome. </p><p>“I’ve got something like a collection going,” Killiahkadaz said. </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>That’s the question, isn’t it? Why of all things to collect she picked spoons? </p><p>She gave a simple shrug, it was both very simple and very complicated.“Why not.”</p><p>This pleased the man, for he was just that, not a titan or olympian, not blessed or damned, just a man with a lot of wealth, in the shine of his palace it was hard to remember, it was like richness remade a human into something more. In her short time with him, he’s proven to like doing things or the Hell of it. A luxury only the rich can afford. </p><p>Oh yes, he would make a poor immortal, a match burned to its end by a hot, fast, flame.</p><p>*</p><p>Time never slows. Scientifically, it’s relative to space and speed and very complicated.  Literally, one action comes before another, a minute before a minute. Metaphorically, it stacks up like a deck of cards, lines up like dominoes in a line. </p><p>People aren’t time. They aren’t a steady stream, a thick cloth. They are the thread. Thread wears and unspoils. It has no backup to keep it together.</p><p>If you pull hard and hold it up to the light you can see through it.</p><p> If tortured enough even the longest of threads can break. </p><p>*</p><p>Looking back in time doesn’t need psychic precognition. It doesn’t need tarot cards nor scrying. It might need a book, or words or pictures. It might need some spoons. If your age is high enough it might need a strong drink. </p><p>Turn around and look back. </p><p>To look back is to feel time, both it’s passage and simple presence. </p><p>Time stacks against itself; dominos, a deck of cards. Fan the cards out and pick one. Line the dominos up and knock one over, see how they all fall down. </p><p>*</p><p>Meg Dantès—Bonnie Knox, Ella Sallow, Killiahkadaz (you know the drill by now)--it says on her travel papers. Meg Dantès is easier to be than Atarah.</p><p>
  <em> A helping hand. Here on business or pleasure, miss? Both, hopefully.  </em>
</p><p>Meg. Meg. Meg. </p><p>
  <em> A flirtatious smile. Don’t we all. I suppose we do. </em>
</p><p>The immortal, like all creatures, must be fit for the environment in which it lives. Such long lives mean that fluidness is needed most of the time. In fashion, sometimes gender,  in names as conventions change and countries and cites all have different conventions. A chameleon must blend in.</p><p>Her names are all similar from one to the next, but the jump from one to one-hundred is nowhere similar. </p><p>Immortality requires fluidity, Meg likes change, welcomes it with open arms for better or for worse. She gets odd looks, maybe it’s the daring fashion she chose to go out in,  a low neck in the daytime, a low waist and a silhouette with too much dress in the back. </p><p>Maybe it’ll come into fashion, maybe it won’t.  Meg is usually hit or miss when it comes to anticipating fashion, especially English fashion.</p><p>Maybe the looks are from her skin color, the warm brown of her skin marking her an outsider.  The contrast of her jewelry and dress and skin color. Rich and poor markers respectively here.</p><p>They are so young, their hate is such a fire it can do nothing but burn them out given time but fire never truly goes out, there is always a fire burning.</p><p>Theoretically, she could open a portal but cutting and smashing space together was never her thing, the threat of failure and ending up in nothingness too strong. </p><p>She also liked the walk, liked the heavy trains heaving on the nearby tracks. </p><p>Where she was going wasn’t for a spoon. The letter in her hand, clutching it to crumpling,  had the details in neat handwriting.  </p><p>News and a summons. </p><p>This wasn’t a usual gathering, not that magicks users met often. </p><p>
  <em> Cause of death unknown </em>
</p><p>This was step one. Part one. The opening chapter. </p><p>
  <em> Come to the Hall of Nyth </em>
</p><p>The hardest step.</p><p>*</p><p>Before a chosen name and a chosen dress and a crumpled up letter, before hundreds of names and wealth to match her age, before, before, before. </p><p>Time is like cloth, a long thick cloth. </p><p>Wrap the cloth around something and it’s a circle,  start at the end, and end at the beginning. Everyone lives in circles, birth to death, death to birth, it doesn’t matter—breathing is a circle, in and out, continuous. Love and loss, loss and love are a circle. </p><p>Before, maybe after, maybe now, it doesn’t matter, this is the moment the most common circle is fixed at. </p><p>This is how it goes. </p><p>A girl, a girl with nothing. A mom with a secret and fear to ruin her one day. </p><p>A girl with nothing but horns atop her head. The horns are black and smooth like glass but attach to her skull, they look almost like a crown, two ridges start at the base of her skull and go to the hairline before branching up and out with a hooked-like curve at the very top, they are sturdy and grow with her, always as long as her forearms. </p><p>As she grows the ridges of the horns grow, they stretch between the horns and form a jagged square a hand high. It begs for fire. </p><p>A woman—one with a single name for her whole life, Tziamara—kept her baby a secret in the slums of Egypt in grand statues' shadows. She tried to cut them while they looked like glass they will not break as such.</p><p>She prayed to God that he will show mercy to her for letting a demon spawn—for that is all the child could be—live. </p><p>She knew she is in sin but not for her daughter's birth, she laid with a demon who masked himself as her husband, she found his body later, body so stiff he must have been dead for hours and the imposter gone. She will be judged as a victim, God is all-knowing. It does little to comfort her in the stone one-room place she calls home. </p><p>As the child, Atarah, grew up to a life of suffering as a slave, Tziamara prayed for salvation, for a future, for the horns to fall off, for mercy, understanding, for everything, she prayed until her thoughts were merely yearnings tripping over each other. </p><p> She doesn’t hear a word but she waits. </p><p>She does hear word but not from God.</p><p>Something is burning. </p><p>*</p><p>Science lesson: when sulfur gases combust as they leak through vents at high pressure and high temperature it burns blue. The flames can condense into liquid sulfur and it will continue to burn, looking like blue, burning lava. </p><p>Language lesson: brimstone means sulfur; fire and brimstone is burning sulfur. </p><p>Demonology lesson:  Hell is made of lakes of burning sulfur and demons are like anything in an environment, they adapt to be fit. </p><p>Humanity lesson: fight or flight goes back all the way to the first humans.</p><p>Humanity lesson two: a mother's instinct to save her child is a powerful force .</p><p>*</p><p>Tziamara smelled it before she entered her hut, she had little to burn and nothing to light fire with, not with a child barely eight years old, who will have to start working soon, who could not hide forever in her mother's house.</p><p>Tziamara opened the door and saw blue flames, bright blue like the sky captured and flickering against the stone of her house, none of her cloth was burning, the fire dancing up and down the walls. Up her daughter’s arm. </p><p>Tziamara grabbed her daughter, “Mama, Mama, look!” Atarah tried to rush forward but her mother didn’t let her, Tziamara locked her hands around her daughter’s horns, below the sharp points and forced Atarah’s head to the side</p><p>“Mama?” </p><p>Tziamara had been a slave her whole life, her mother was a slave, her grandmother was a slave. </p><p>They never had the power to fight back. </p><p>If she could subject her daughter to the pains of labor and somehow keep her horns hidden her power would grow and she could level the Pharaoh’s statues and his palace. </p><p>The horns cannot be hidden and her daughter will be killed for being evil and blasphemous, a Hebrew girl could never have any traits of their so-called gods.</p><p> “Listen to me, kyky,”  Tziamara said. “We are going to play a game.” </p><p>“A game?”</p><p>“The game is called, run, hear me, run for the river, if they see you,” Tziamara pointed to the dying blue flames that choked the air. “Shoot this at them.” </p><p>“Will it hurt them?”</p><p>Them, the guards with sharp weapons and a taste for blood. “Does it hurt you?” </p><p>“Then it won’t hurt them, it might tickle a little but don’t look back if you hear them scream.” </p><p>“Will you come with me, mama?” </p><p>Tziamara tapped her nose and kissed her head, she prayed for safety, for protection. “I’ll be right behind you.” </p><p>She didn’t pray for herself. </p><p>*</p><p>Humanity lesson three: humans are liars. They lie to hurt and to love. They twist themselves up into webs. </p><p>*</p><p>A child with fire powers and horns may be able to scare off the young guards who will not admit to their shame for it is impossible and will let the child go, but a woman will not get that lucky, she cannot hope that her daughter’s powers will protect her and cannot put that burden on her shoulders. </p><p>“If we get split up, meet me at the river,” Tziamara murmured, she lead her girl outside, the two guards standing by watched her, flashing their curved spears. She held her daughter against her body, hunched over in shadow to hide her horns. </p><p>“Trust God for he will guide you—us.” </p><p>“Mama,” Atarah pulled herself up on her mother's shoulder and tucked her head against her neck. Horns brushed Tziamara’s head, they were hot, they always were. </p><p>“I love you, Atarah.”</p><p>The guards were coming closer, the horns were out in the open and the moon was full tonight.</p><p>“Mama.” </p><p>With her heart breaking and turning to steal she said, “Be strong and run. Do not look back.” </p><p>She let her little girl go. Atarah ran, blue fire shot out from her fingers and the guards screamed as it ran up their arms and to their hearts. </p><p>Atarah did the same to the next to guards in sight and as they ran out of sight, to the river, the burned guards cried to help. The living ones anyway. </p><p>Help came. </p><p>When asked what happened, no one believed the guards that a Hebrew girl with black jewel horns with blue fire had burned them, they all thought the guards were messing around the fire and got burned. </p><p>*</p><p>Humanity lesson two: even when a lie has gaps in it they will fool themselves rather than believe something that will wreak their worldview. </p><p>*</p><p> Atarah, technically Meg, let her glamour drop as she came to the Hall of Nyth. Nyth in an old, long-dead language was a verb, it meant ‘to go into the darkness’ to ‘to welcome the void’  something like that. Or so Atarah is told. </p><p>The Hall of Nyth is one of the few places for a ashipu funeral.  </p><p>The humans, she will never call them mundanes, cannot see this place for how it is, they it as a run-down factory now, it changes periodically to something humans will leave alone, even though the wards prevent entry and scream <em> stay away </em>to loud no one can enter, you have to keep appearances up. </p><p>It’s in what’s now called England. </p><p>Beyond the glamour the structure is made of glass that doesn’t serve as a look into the building but as a looking glass to, well, many things. It shifts each moment with no one there, stars and nebulae, water, fire, green grass, flowers, it’s like the very thing is inside the glass. </p><p>It feeds off what the people standing there want, pulling aesthetics from their heads.  Right now the structure of the glass takes the form of a simple basilica. </p><p>Hugh Riot (formerly known as Blackmore before he started workshopping last names)  was only in his first lifetime when his death was felt and his body found.</p><p>He looked twenty but was 79 years old. The Hall of Nyth opened, he was a Catholic man and the hall with the help of the ashipu-ene gathered, the older ones, the powerful, the rising in the ranks, for they could bear this, shaped up into an artist's rendition of a Cathedral.</p><p>Atarah did not often take her place as one of the oldest Warlocks, she liked to collect her spoons and shift with the humans, responsibility wasn’t her thing. </p><p>The Hall of Nyth did not play by the rules of space and physics, the ceiling is high with buttresses and columns of marble lined with gold.  A golden cross is at the altar and statues of the Virgin Mary, Saint Anthony, on either side of the altar,  in between them a large stained glass window depicting more saints and miracles. Candles were not needed there as bright beams of light shone through.</p><p>At the entrance the Holy Mother cradled her dead son to herself. There was a gold tint to it and it was amplified by the candles around it. </p><p>Atarah had never been in a Catholic church but she traced every inch of the statue, she’s seen such like it before but she’d been looking back today and something about it made her stand. </p><p>No one rushed her.</p><p>She was used to being treated like a young rich lady but here she was in the older half amongst the eldest. </p><p>Magnus Bane stood next to her, she did not know his age but he was powerful. She could smell fire on him, in him. They had never officially met so Magnus Bane laid his hands over his heart. </p><p>“Viisaille viisauden, Atarah, I am Magnus Bane.” </p><p>She did the respectable thing, touched her brow with two fingers painted red, then made a sweeping gesture, left to right and palm-up. “Viisailta maailmalle, Magnus Bane. I am testing out a last name, Atarah Dread, five letters though and I like the whole <em> four-letter noun meaning something bad </em> last names that’s been going around, don’t get me wrong,” Atarah folded her hands feeling very old calling something that’s been basically a rite of passage— one of the happier ones, looking through languages and coming up with something cool—a trend.“But names don’t stick to me well.” </p><p>Magnus laughed, it was light and polite and shallow. Very English.  She closed her eyes, she still has the statue imprinted on her eyelids, she never sought out responsibility, she could have a seat at the table but she doesn’t wish to have it. </p><p>“Did you ever meet him?” Magnus Bane asked in a perfect English accent for the time. </p><p>“A little after he was born,” Atarah replied in an accent to match his, it must have been Hugh Blackmore's. “I always say <em> ashipu-ene </em> only ever gather for births and funerals, maybe an odd wedding or war thrown in there.” </p><p>When Magnus laughed this time it was far more real, a short laugh, more of a bark mixed with a snort, it didn’t match with the impeccable suit he wore. “You’re not wrong.” </p><p>She quirked her lips and turned on her heel, she held out her arm to Magnus. And he took it. </p><p>*</p><p>Humanity lesson three:  without companionship falling into depths in harder and so is rising.</p><p>Ashipu-ene lesson one: they gather for births and funerals. Both are rare. A birth is usually an abandonment but death was always violent, they are designed to be immortal and hard to kill, their bodies can recover from almost anything, even if the ashipu isn’t trained in healing magic, their magic works like an immune system and fights the threat however it can. </p><p>*</p><p>Atarah has seen many dead bodies, she’s seen her loved and beloved die, she’s seen battlefields and sick dens. They reeked. </p><p>This place smelled of incense. Hugh was a heavy-set man, he had a beard, he often glamoured himself to look older to be with friends and nephews nieces and great -nephews and -nieces.</p><p>He wore a cross around his neck on a gold chain. He was wearing a suit. Atarah touched his forehead. The ashipu-ene were not Shadowhunters, they did not have ancient Latin words to say, <em> ave atque vale. </em> They were not human, they weren’t English and didn’t have national words of sorrow, <em> I’m so sorry for your loss, he’s in a better place now, my God rest his soul.  </em></p><p>They were old and spoke many languages and dialects that had many customs and ways that were a melting pot of magic and human, (they were lucky to have a greeting) religion was one of the most tangled webs. </p><p>She drew a cross on his forehead and bowed her head. “Be at peace, brother.” </p><p>It doesn’t matter the religion, the dead should rest. </p><p>He had a single marking on his chest, his suit was unbuttoned to show it. It was clean and dry but it felt like a vent where tar would bubble up from. </p><p>*</p><p>Science lesson two: dolphins can control bodily functions that humans can’t. Breathing is one of them, each breath is a conscious and coordinated effort. Driving stick vs. automatic. In captivity, they make the conscious and coordinated effort to not breathe until they die. </p><p>Ashipu-ene lesson two: for a warlock to kill themselves they must do something their magic cannot automatically fix on instinct.</p><p>Deliberately interfering with the automatic gear change. </p><p>Then they can draw out their mana, their energy, pull it from each atom until they have nothing to use. </p><p> To keep the gear shift from restarting you have to keep up constant interference. </p><p>Even the ashipu body can recover from almost total energy deprivation so the conscious effort must last until death. </p><p>To hang with bent knees brushing the ground. </p><p>*</p><p>Murder or suicide. The fact that no property damage was reported around Hugh’s house and there is no sighs on him of a struggle…</p><p>Atarah had thought an investigation may be in order, she could place some anger onto a killer but looking at the body they all knew. </p><p>A young kashshaptu-ene had found him, brought him here and sent word. </p><p>“The hunt is called off,” En’hedu’Ana said, her presence large. The crystal-diamond spires tipped with sharp points encircled her head like a crown, it reflected and refracted the light.  Immortality required a passion for something and hers was leadership, taking in others, she’d founded the bones of the Spiral Court, Sekhmet Djsr. </p><p>The lady of stars was made to shine. </p><p>Atarah had been offered a seat at the Sebba by her personally, the first ashipu saved by the savior. </p><p>She had refused for a multitude of reasons but it boiled down to—I am not meant to lead, I will fall apart if I must, I cannot do the responsibility for it shall crush me. She had smiled and said, ‘I just want to live as  free as I can and collect spoons’</p><p>Atarah held out her arm to En’hedu’Ana, who’d kept the name for herself this whole time no matter where she went, and if she did change it she did it for appearances, she wore each time period like a costume, surfing the waves,  but Atarah let herself be drawn into the waves, let them shape her.</p><p>En’hendu’Ana made up for her lack of fluidity with responsibility, her sense of duty and it guided her to the stars. She saw the big picture and shaped the world around her. Atarah would follow her anywhere. </p><p>En’hendu’Ana clasped her forearm and bowed her head. </p><p>*</p><p>Why spoons? What is a spoon? Nothing? Everything? </p><p>*</p><p>Spoons and music are universal, the first humans, after they spread out to every continent and then were separated by tectonic plates moving, all came up with two of the same things. Music and spoons.</p><p>Music soft and loud, for sorrow for celebration. Music fast and slow, for sleep, for waking, for anything and everything. </p><p>They also made spoons,  spoons of bone and porcelain, wood and gold, stone and metal. </p><p>*</p><p>She did not look back. </p><p>Atarah, with horns of the black glass of Hell, ran. Blue fire trailed from her fingertips, she didn’t know if it was instinct or God or something else but the fire seemed to have a mind of its own and protected her. </p><p>She made it to the shore, her mother wasn’t there and the shore was so big. People stared as they passed but they had work to do and when they didn’t she sent blue flames to lick their heels. </p><p>Atarah walked along the shore, her mother wasn’t there. She wasn’t there. <em> She wasn’t there. </em>Heat licked up her arms and back, she burning black of her horns brought little comfort to her.</p><p>She continued to walk, looking for her mother, looking for a sign, for something. </p><p>Her mother, it seemed, was a liar. Her breath caught in her throat, pulled down by the realization. She needed to go back. Find her mom, free her mom, leave and ride off into the sunset. </p><p>She turned around, her magic flickered, worn and like a bad radio signal (which won’t be invented for around 2,000 years but metaphors aren’t subject to the laws of time) it was giving her a sign.  A sign to stop, it hooked into her bones and pulled her back. </p><p>Her stomach twisted and her calves felt like the last bit of them were shaved off. The village closest to her loomed but she did not know how to go up and knock on the door. How to get the courage, she was a horned fire-wielder they would lock her out. </p><p>A woman who didn’t seem to belong here in her fine silk cloth braids adorned with bells. “I felt another,” she said. She wasn’t much taller than Atarah and had curves of fat and muscle visible under the dress, the way she held herself said <em> power. </em>“I am En’hedu’Ana.” </p><p><em> Trust God. </em>Maybe this was God or an angel sent her to rescue her. Atarah fell to her knees but En’hedu’Ana grabbed her forearm and stopped her from touching her knees to the soil. </p><p>“I will protect you,” En’hedu’Ana said. “And teach you.” </p><p>Atarah looked at her face and one moment it was normal and the next her eyes were all blue and diamond-crystal wands encircled her head. Not there and then there, like the fire. </p><p>“I can teach you how to hide, come with me.” </p><p>*</p><p>Why spoons? </p><p>We’re getting there. </p><p>*</p><p>It was an underground temple of sorts, everything granite and stone and just a way off the Nile. “You are using your raw power and it causes flames. You have to shape it.”</p><p>En’hedu’Ana set a bowl of rice and greens in front of Atarah with a wooden spoon. (We’re almost there) and another in front of herself. There were seats but they sat on the floor. </p><p>“Here,” En’hedu’Ana held up her spoon. “Look at it, feel it, make it,” she closed her eyes and in a flash of red another wooden spoon appeared. “It easy to copy things.”</p><p>Atarah held the spoon the felt the grooves of the wood and reached inside herself and twisting letting the water rush over the dam, she dropped the spoon and then was holding it. She never picked it up. </p><p>She quirked her lips and held up the spoon, it was exactly right. But it wasn’t what she wanted, what she wanted was to go and free the slaves of Egypt, free her mom. </p><p>“What am I supposed to do with this?” </p><p>En’hedu’Ana gave her a flat stare. “Start a collection.”</p><p>Atarah clumped against the wall. “I want to free my mother. I can’t do that with a spoon,” she threw the spoon against the wall. </p><p>“Are you done?” En’hedu’Ana asked. “Because if you need to yell at someone and be mad at someone who isn’t yourself I am here but you can’t get there from here. Patience. Practice.” </p><p>Atarah straightened up. “Fine.” </p><p>En’hedu’Ana smiled. “Good. Now do it again.</p><p>*</p><p>Atarah took home the spoon from the auction. She liked her spoons to have memories attached to them and this one had donated thousands of euros to a University for research. A University that helped underprivileged kids.</p><p>She looked back through her spoons and pulled out a once wooden spoon, magically preserved but still aged and crusted. She was a collector of spoons and moments and she padded her soul with them, made her thread in the cloth of time thicker. </p><p><em>Begin at the end and end at the beginning.</em> Spread out the deck of cards, shuffle them.</p><p>She quirked her lip as she touched the spoon, collecting things had always felt right for this reason; to sit around and remember, to see her efforts in the spread of spoons, a history of moments. Not to bad. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>well uh, that happened. honestly, I am not sure what this is but I couldn't get it out of my head. Comments? Concerns? Challenges?Critiques? Thoughts? Feelings? Anything? </p><p>Thank you for reading.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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